The Salem Witch Tryouts
by QueenEviefan2019
Summary: Prudence Stewart had it all at Beverly Hills High: straight A's, the cutest crush, and a sweet gig as captain of the cheerleading squad. Then poof! Mom and dad announce they're moving to Salem, Massachusetts. Turns out Pru comes from a long line of witches and it's time for her to learn the craft. Buh-bye, Beverly Hills High-hello, Agatha's Day School!.
1. Chapter 1

The Salem Witch Tryouts

Chapter.1

Life is unfair. Mega unfair. And it's all my parents' fault. I certainly wouldn't choose to leave the house I was practically born in, not to mention all my friends, my school, my world. And just how sneaky was it to give me the cell phone I've been begging for since before I left for cheerleading camp (picture phone, text messaging, unlimited minutes, the works) just before dropping the bomb?

I should have known something was up. But, no. I was not prepared for them to spring the bad news—no, strike that. The catastrophic news.

We're moving. New state, new house, new school. No more sleepovers, no more a.m. gab fests with Maddie before school. No more . . . anything. Except, of course, magic. That I can have. As if I want it. My life has been just fine without magic for almost sixteen years. So why do I need it now?

Mom and dad are lucky that they have me for their daughter. Ten years of academic excellence and five years of cheerleading have taught me how to handle any crisis like Jane bond-shaken not stirred. Even when said crisis comes with major twist.

I guess it's not surprising that, at almost four hundred years old, mom thinks it's no big deal to uproot us. Witches think different, I learned that before I learned to walk. But dad has no excuse. He's not even fifty yet, and he's mortal. He's attached to his things in a way witches outgrow around the hundredth birthday (or so says mom when I ask why I can't have Dolce & Gabbana like the other kids).

I'd say my life is over, but I've used that line so often, it doesn't even get an eye roll from dad. Would you believe mom even did a little spell to make harp sounds play-just like she used to do back when I was thirteen and, I admit, a teensy-weensy bit of a whine-o-mat. And all I'd said, quite reasonably, was "I want to stay and live with maddie until I graduate."

If only they were reasonable. But I guess I should know by now that reasonable is not one of the weapons in the parental arsenal.

Mom and dad tried to softball the news that we were moving from Beverly hills, California, to Salem, Massachusetts, by telling us our new house had an indoor pool. Big whoop. Our old house had an outdoor pool, no snow in the forecast for the zillion years, and Beverly hills high school, where I was going to be the very first junior to be named head cheerleading and maybe, just maybe, run for student council.

You'll be running your new high school before long," mom teased, as if she thought swapping schools was as easy as swapping swatch bands.

Dad was more serious, as always. "As long as you keep your grades up, we'll be happy, Prudence honey. We don't need you to be head cheerleader or elected to class government to know you're special."

Special. He says that word with a wince. Poor Dad. He never really got used to living with a witch or raising two children who could do magic. If I were a good daughter, unselfish and properly thinking of my family, I'd appreciate how hard it was for him to agree to my mother's request to take us to Salem, her birthplace, so that we could learn to use the magic that had been highly discouraged here in the mortal realm.

Why did they suddenly decide to make this move? Did dad get a fabulous new job at his advertising company so Mom and I could splurge on shopping and spa weekends? As if. No. We're moving because of Dorklock—otherwise known as my younger brother, Tobias. When the hormones hit, he couldn't control his magic. After the third time poor miss SamSky's skirt flew up in the middle of summer school math class, my mother had our house up for sale and my golden life at Beverly hills high up in flames. Boys are dumb. Especially when they're twelve. I would have voted to send him away to magic boarding school. But I don't get a vote. Because life is unfair.

I think Dad was tempted. After all, he is a non-magical mortal who is much happier when there are strict rules against uncontrolled magic in the house. But the idea that my brother could go to a school where teachers would be able to do simple spells against his simpleton magic until he learns to control it was a strong argument. Besides, my mother said she'd move us to Salem with dad or without him. And he really adores her, no matter how much magic makes him nervous.

Dorklock doesn't even mind that he's ruined our lives. He thinks it's cool that we'll be in Salem, living in the witch realm and able to use our magic without the usual restrictions we have in order to live with the mortals. What can I say? He's a kid. He doesn't understand that, as the newbies in school, we'll be on a lower scale than even the lowliest freshman. Of course, he's used to being a scud, the lowest of the low.

But I'm not. I'm honor society. I was going to be head cheerleader. My life was supposed to be charmed, even with the big, bad magic prohibition. I had it all arranged-head cheerleader, and then maybe even class president. Fast-track ticket to college of my choice in my pretty pink coach bag. After all, I deserved it. I'd been working on being cool since preschool. In Beverly hills.

Thank goodness I know how to plan for the—majorly—unexpected. If I have to go (and apparently I do), I intend to keep my cool. Even if I have to use magic to do it. Which is going to be a mondo change. Me, doing magic and not getting grounded for it.

But even I could not have prepared for just how fast our lives were about to change. The first thing that told me my life was going to do a midair flip in turbo speed was the actual day of departure. Instead of moving men and moving trucks, Mom flashed everything from our old house to our new house. One minute there, the next, gone. Dad kept watch at the window to make sure no nosy neighbors saw our insta-move.

Mom's sentimental and likes rituals, so we all stood in the living room and said farewell to the house. We sprinkled just a bit of incense to leave the next family a nice welcome, then she said softly,

"Bless this house and all its walls,

We have lived here safe and sound.

Now we move to our new home,

Shift our things and cleanse this ground."

Zip zap. Empty rooms. Clean rooms. Fresh, blah cream paint on the walls. Even though the empty rooms of the house echoed and looked strange without all our furniture and knickknacks, I'd coped. But then I noticed that she hadn't just painted and cleaned with a zap.

What happened to the lines on the door?" The careful nicks in the living room door frame that had charted my growth—and dorklock's, of course—were gone. Missing. The wood was smooth, the paint perfect.

I'd been holding it together ever since mom and dad had said we were moving. No discussion. No appeals. No surprise. A cheerleader knows how to put a smile on, after all. But sometimes a girl's gotta let her true feelings be known so she doesn't get squashed flat like a frog on the freeway.

"The real estate agent will have an easier time selling the place if we leave it spiffed up," Dad said. "Wouldn't want someone new to have to do all the sanding and painting and such."

It was another sign that everything familiar was being turned upside down—Dad never calmly accepts mom using "big" magic. Which is pretty much anything more than zapping an extra serving of popcorn if we run out and it's too late to run to the market. Normally I'd suspect him of taking a couple of Xanax, but he was about to drive and he doesn't even take an antihistamine if he's going to be behind the wheel. My dad makes a square look like it has sloppy corners.

"Put it back." I looked at mom. "It's the house's character. You've said so a million times."

"It's only a thing, sweetheart. Remember, things are not important, people are. And the new people will make their own memories and create their own character for this house."

"It's not fair!" I whined. Harps sounded, mocking my words. It's not fair. I tried to shoot the thoughts though my blazing eyes. I think it worked, because my parents looked taken aback. And harp music didn't play.

"That's enough out of you, young lady," my dad said. The move had gotten on his nerves too. "Get out to the car right now."

I thought about making a grand gesture—running off to my room, slamming my door, refusing to go. But the room was empty. All my stuff was gone to the new house. Grand gestures shouldn't be wasted. We only get so many in one lifetime (or so says grandmama, Queen of High Drama).

"Time to go." Mom was grimly cheerful. She was usually the optimist to his pessimist. But I think leaving was hard for her. This was her first home with my dad. Where she'd raised us. She was going back home, sort of. But I don't think she liked it. Not that she was going to do less than she thought was right for her children.

Too bad she didn't believe in witch boot camp. Dorklock was the perfect candidate. He was already out in the SUV, just waiting to go. He didn't even mind leaving everything behind. He'd like boot camp. It was the perfect solution. Apparently, in her eyes, perfect mothers didn't send their imperfect children away. Too bad she couldn't see the situation through my eyes.

Then again, maybe she did, a little. She put her arm around me and led me out. As we passed the door, she touched the spot where the notches had been and they reappeared. "Even a new family can enjoy a little lingering character."

"Just a minute." I stood there looking at the naked rooms that weren't anything like home anymore. I touched the top notch, and my name, PRUDENCE, appeared in the wood. Not to leave the Dorklock out, although he probably deserved it, I touched his top line and his name, Tobias, appeared. His top line was only a little under mine, despite the fact that he's four years younger. Soon he would be taller. Would there be a door frame to notch in the new house? And did it matter, when it wasn't home and never would be?

For a moment, I considered locking the front door to the house and refusing to leave. But, seriously, I'm in it to win it, just like a good cheerleader should be. What was there to win in refusing to go? An empty house that wasn't ours anymore? All my things were far away, in Salem.

Still, it was hard not to revert to the Terrible Twos. And I guess it showed, because and when dad came back he gave mom that "is she sane?" look they like to use when they think I'm being unreasonable. "Ready princess?"

Princess? More like medieval serf. It's a wonder I'm a leader at school, considering how they treat me like a baby. I tried not to cry. Crying makes my voice shake. And voice-shaking is not leadership-quality behavior. I may have been forced to leave my cheerleading squad behind, but I would go with head high and a big fake smile in place. If only—

"We're going to come back," I began. "Why can't we just leave the house. . ."

"I'm not made of money, princess. We'll make a nice profit on the house. That's how we can afford the pool in the new place."

Pool. Big deal. Although, I suppose it could come handy in establishing cool status in Salem.

I walked out the door, fighting tears, to see a dozen girls in cheerleading uniforms on the lawn Tobias had just mowed for the last time this morning. The whole A squad. All sixteen of them, including Chezzie, who hates me, and Maddie, my best friend. In full gear.

All I could think for a second was that I needed to grab my uniform and fall in line. But I'd turned my uniform in to coach. In a heartbeat it took for the gut-punch to hit me that I was no longer a part of the squad, that it was complete without me, they geared up and began a cheer.

"Gimme a B!

"Gimme a Y!

"Gimme an E!

"Noooooooooooooooooooo."

"We love Pru so so much."

"We can't let her goooooo."

"So come back soon and we'll cheer."

"For Pru, our leader dear."

I didn't want to cry, because Chezzie was watching and she'd tell everyone, including Brent, my crush du jour. I'd been planning to wage a campaign to get him to take me to junior prom this year. It was bad enough that I had to leave without knowing if the definite buzz between Brent and I would turn into a nice hot relationship. I didn't need Chezzie talking to him and making sure he wouldn't talk to me if I did manage to talk to mom and dad into coming back. I could just imagine, "she was so jealous of how we looked without her, she was screaming with rage." Chezzie puts the yotch in beeyotch.

Not that Chezzie would be wrong. I was jealous of them. Jealous that their woulds weren't being ripped into confetti. Jealous that they weren't going to have to piece all the confetti together again in another place and put on a smile while doing it.

So by the time the cheer ended, I'd managed to stop the waterworks. My cheeks were wet and I know my mascara was probably running, but at least I wasn't squirting tears like an insane teenage water fountain. I'd wish I'd thought to put on waterproof mascara, but I hadn't been planning to go swin—or cry my eyes out either.

The squad stood for a moment in ready position, like we'd all been taught: take the bow, accept the appreciation, be proud. I had about a nanosecond to respond, and the wrong response could mean I'd be lower than a scud if I was lucky enough to convince my parents to come back home where we belonged. Reputation is precious, and I didn't want to lose mine in the last sixty seconds I lived in Beverly Hills.

"You guys!" I ran to hug them before they could move toward me. "I'm going to miss you!" I really was going to miss everyone but Chezzie, the snake with the fake double-D's, but there was no point in saying so out loud. Truth is, a good head cheerleader knows her team, and I know mine, good and bad.

Maddie ran to meet me and we hugged. There were tears in her eyes and her embrace was no weak-armed "let me see whether you have silicone or saline" hug. She grabbed me like she wasn't going to let me go. Now I had an excuse for my drippy mascara. She whispered, " Run away and I'll sneak you into my closet. No one will know."

"My mom knows everything." It's a standing joke with my friends and enemies alike that my mother knows what I do before I do it. They don't know the half of it. Mom has those CIA tracking devices in the movies beat—she's set so many protective spells over me, it's amazing I can walk or talk half the time.

"I'll distract her. You run. 'Cause I don't think I can face junior year without you." That's Maddie, trying to cheer me up by letting me know how miserable she is, "You'll be fine. Look at what a great cheer you just gave." Besides, she wasn't changing school and didn't have to snarf up cool status from squat. But there was no point sour-graping her. It wasn't her fault I was moving. And she had offered me her closet.

"But you've been working on the cheer routine all summer. All we did was tweak it to fit today."

Trust Maddie to think that would make me feel better. I'd given her the notebook with all my routines and the music. Not that Maddie would ever be captain of the squad. She's a mouse when it comes to leadership. She's a great right hand, and I wish I could pack her in my suitcase, but I only gave her the notebook because I couldn't bear to give it to Chezzie.

I hugged her tight. "I'm going to miss you most of all. Don't forget to text me everything that's happening."

"You too." She glanced at my dad, who was making shooing motions toward the car. "Maybe you can come back soon."

"Maybe." I didn't try to sound hopeful. I wasn't.

"The team thought you should have this." Chezzie walked up to us and thrust a package with a big bow on it at me. "Salem—isn't that where the witches were? That should make you feel at home."

Chezzie and I used to be friends. Until I told her I was a witch and she pulled out her cross and holy water and started to exorcise me. Picture me and Chezzie, about eight. She has a pink plastic bottle of holy water and a matching lavender cross. I have a horrified expression.

Even though mom wiped her memory, mine is still intact. Chezzie is prejudiced, and I'm just not up with that. Not that she remembers I'm a real witch, of course. But something stuck, because if she's not calling me a bitch, she's calling me a witch. It'll be interesting to see what witches call one another when they're PMSing. Mortals? I don't think so.

Chezzie was smiling and acting like she was joking, but I knew better. I unwrapped the package to find a shiny new spiltflex. Perfect for the girl without a cheerleading squad. Still, I hugged her and laughed. "Good luck to all of you—and be good to your new captain, whoever she is."

That dimmed Chezzie's bleached bright grin. But only for a second. "Oh, I'll make sure they are. And don't worry, I'll be a good captain, maybe even better than you would have been."

"Ouch," interjected Sarah, a strong girl who could hold and throw like a guy and had about as much sensitivity to girl-speak. "Is that your way of saying, 'Don't let the door hit you in the button your way out'?"

Maddie frowned at her. But after I had torn up my uniform and had to zap it back together to hand in to coach, I had accepted that fate had spoken. I wasn't going to be the youngest head cheerleader of the Beverly Hills High School squad. It was a size-zero comfort that Chezzie was a senior, so she wouldn't be taking everything from me—just the work, the fun, and the glory. "Chezzie, I wish you all the votes you deserve, girl. And I look forward to seeing you in the finals."

She looked surprised. They all did. "You mean you'd be a cheerleader on another school's squad?"

Truth time? The thought hadn't even occurred to me until it came out to pop Chezzie's gloat balloon. Finals? Against BHHS? "Duh? Why not? If I have to go to Salem, why not teach them to act Beverly Hills? Besides"—I held up the Splitflex—"I have this to keep my splits in perfect form. It would be a shame to waste it."

From the looks on their faces, you'd think I'd said I was going to go on Oprah and tell all their secrets on national TV. As if anyone really wanted to know.

"Thanks for giving us such a great send-off, girls," my dad said, tapping his watch. "But we have a schedule to keep."

"Right." I climbed into the SUV and strapped in. I waved until I was out of sight, trying not to think about how I would face a new school without Maddie to help me pick out my clothes and pluck the stray eyebrows I sometimes forgot. And . . . never mind. It doesn't matter. I'm going to Salem. And maybe I would meet them at the tournament. But I wish I hadn't said so. Because my comment had changed something. I could see it in the way Chezzie's top front teeth had peeked out of her smile like they did when she thought she had juicy news to tell.

And I could feel it inside me. Would I be a traitor if I cheered against them? It wasn't my fault I had to go to a new school. And I intended to be cool, no matter what it took—even if It did come down to beating Beverly Hills in the cheerleading finals.

"First stop, Grand Canyon!" Dad announced, Oh, goody. I put in my earphones and turned up the music, the oh-so-appropriate "Boulevard of Broken Dreams," by Green Day. Prepare for a bumpy ride, I thought. Life is so not fair.

End of chapter 1. This Book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. This book is written by KELLY McCLYMER.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter.2

Me: Salem Sux News at 11

Maddie: U don't luv the pool?

Me: Even an indoor pool doesn't make up 4 this Crapitude

Maddie: U need 2 make friends?

Me: Hah! Ppl here dress like Macy's on parade

Maddie: LOL! Can't be that bad

Me: Is Except for punks in black with piercings and hair any color but natures own.

Maddie: No way Met any witches yet?

Me: Kidding? Not leaving my room

Maddie: Sounds booooring!

Me: Don't wanna make the rents happy by tryin 2 fit in.

Maddie: True but if U met a witch U could steal a broomstick and fly home

Me: Sounds like a plan

Maddie: Cool I'll hide U in my if u will eat my sushi 4 me.

Maddie's responses to my useless whining made me smile. Pretty much the only thing that had since I'd left Beverly Hills. Sure, the girl really hated sushi. But she also knew how much I loved it.

Not that I'd seen a sushi place when we drove down the narrow streets of our new home. After the two-week road trip, I'd pretty much taken to tuning out courtesy of my IPOD. With my eyes closed, I could pretend I was anywhere but in the back of an SUV, wondering why the very short texts I got from everyone but Maddie claimed they were "too busy." Which meant they had moved on and I should too.

Maddie's texts were all I had left from my life in Beverly Hills. Well, and Mom, Dad, and the Dorklock, of course. But, after too much close-quarter fun traveling across the county, I was ready to pretend I didn't know any of them.

Mom would have quickly zapped us all to Salem, but Dad made her compromise. Dad always made her compromise. Which should make living in witch central really interesting.

Rather than traveling in the blink of an eye like the witches we were, we went off for a long car drive across the country. Education, Dad called it. Family time, Mom said.

I would have called it torture, man's inhumanity to witches, and death after life. But if I did, annoying harp music would play. So instead I put on my headphones and turned on my tunes. The pounding lyrics of Disturbed help me tune out the lunacy of my parents. Not to mention the Dorklock.

I'd thought locking him into a moving SUV for a long hours would be guaranteed to turn my parents around. But he'd embraced the new "witchcraft is okay" mood in the house. He had tucked away his Gameboy and pulled out his travel chess. Then he'd animated the players so that they moved around the board, Mostly brawling and not playing any game I could recognize.

Naturally, that made Dad a little nervous. He kept looking over his shoulder and asking, "Can those people in the van see into our car?" or "Is that trucker watching you or the road?"

But Mom only laughed and said it would be fine, people would just think he had one of those new 3-D games. Right. Okay to animate the chessboard, but we have to drive to our new house. Salem, here we come—the mortal way. Three witches and an uptight mortal.

Under my breath, I had said a little spell. After all, if my brother could bewitch his chess pieces, it seemed only fair I could use magic to make the trip as bearable as it could be.

"Roads be clear of traffic today.

Inns be wired for HBO.

Home is where I wish to stay;

Cure Dorklock without delay."

Although we didn't hit major traffic, and every place we stayed had HBO, the trip was still as painful as I had imagined it would be. Twelve states in two weeks, with a hyperactive little brother and parents who can make the most interesting things sound as boring as oatmeal without brown sugar or raisins.

The Grand Canyon was kind of neat, but the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum in Cleveland was lame. My brother tried to take a barrel over Niagara Falls, but Mom stopped him with a spell that made him chirp like a bird every time he had an impish impulse. He chirped a lot. Loudly. By the time we got to Salem, we were all a bundle of nerves.

Mom had wanted to zap us to our new house, but Dad insisted on driving. You'd think that would be a no-brainer since we'd already driven cross-country. But the whole witch world thing really complicated the process. Witches zap, mortals drive. And the witches in Salem don't live in those cute little houses that all the mortals live in. Except for us.

Dad had to go to work every day, and he couldn't zap himself there. So we had to live in a mortal neighborhood and drive a mortal car into a mortal driveway. Which meant we needed some really tricky real estate. Like a house that existed on both planes. There aren't many, and the one we could afford was about four hundred years old and looked like it hadn't been renovated since at least the turn of the century.

"Wowie zowie. This house is cool."

My brother's idea of cool was the twisted, snaking iron fence with gargoyles on the top points. Mine was the pool and the one-lane bowling alley inside. A prerequisite for making the right friends is having a house you can invite them into. This one qualified. Of course, I couldn't do it too soon. Definitely not a good idea to look desperate, no matter how desperate I happened to be.

"How did you guys afford all this? Rob a back? Or just pop in and borrow some spare cash?" Okay. So I wasn't gracious. But they were lucky I hadn't just walked away on one of the many bathroom stops we took across America. What respectable sixteen-year-old wants to spend two weeks driving from California to Massachusetts "Seeing the sights" and being force-fed history?

"We were lucky," my dad answered happily. "The most recent owner was a well-known horror writer who decided to move to Florida permanently."

Dorklock's eyes bugged out. "A horror writer lived here?" The only thing that might have made him happier would have been if Dad had told him there were ghosts his own age in the place. But what dad didn't know wouldn't hurt him. So no said a word about the ghosts, who had come to greet us at the front door. Dad's not the most paranormally sensitive guy around, luckily for us.

Unaware that there was a four-hundred-year-old ghost patting him on the back, Dad continued telling us what a great deal he'd gotten on the house. "He was anxious to sell and gave us a great price. Really great guy."

I glanced at my mom, but she was busy greeting one of the ghosts, a younger woman, as if she'd known her forever (while simultaneously trying to convey that they should not bother dad). Except for her nervousness that dad would notice the ghosts, Mom showed no signs that she'd been meddling when she shouldn't.

She did that, you know. Even though she told me not to. I could usually make her squirm by asking innocent-sounding questions. Such as, "So, he decided to leave a place like this, Which is perfect for writing horror novels, to go to Florida, which is, like, what? The old lady capital of the USA?"

Did Florida even have ghosts? Mom says, next to L.A., It's the least paranormally sensitive spot in the world. Except the North and South Poles. Even horror writers had more sense than to move there.

Dad was not falling for it. He was too happy about finding a house within his budget to question why the horror writer had just up and decided to move. I couldn't tell if he was deliberately ignoring the fact that Mom was talking to thin air, or if he seriously didn't notice. With my dad, sometimes it's best just not to ask.

Let's say we were lucky," my mom said, breaking off her conversation with the lady ghost, who politely disappeared to let us settle in. I'm not positive, but I thought detected a faint hint of squirm in her words. "Go pick out a room."

The inside was creaky, but freshly painted. Our furniture was all in place already, thanks to the wonders of witchcraft. It should have made it more comforting to see our belongings in these new walls. But it didn't. Not at all. It was more like visiting the home of thieves who stole our stuff and then used it for themselves. Yuck.

In the car we'd talked about who would get what room. Or, rather, Mom had tried to get us excited about the new place by talking up the rooms. But I hadn't committed. After all, until we actually saw the place, who knew where we'd want to be?

Mom had assured me that there were six bedrooms and I could pick any one to be mine before I'd taken to nodding without listening whenever she talked to me. (Word of warning: Don't try this at home—one night I ended up with some truly horrific Mexican food because I wasn't paying attention.)

After a tour of the house (I have to admit, it is big . . . if that's a good thing), I picked the room with the turret tower. The curved windows were cool, as my fellow cheerleaders would say. Or is that used-to-be-fellow-cheerleaders?

It was little consolation that Maddie would be jealous-she'd always wanted a turret room—because I knew she wasn't likely to see it. Not only because of the distance, No one from home was going to be visiting me. Not only because of the distance, but also because trying to keep the witch secret from them would be so much harder here. If I made friends at the new school, at lease they would be witches and I wouldn't have to worry about spilling the beans accidentally. If I made friends.

Despite Maddie's almost-certain jealousy over my room, I decided to keep it from for now. The last thing I wanted was her turning traitor and think I had a good deal in this move. I'd have to send her a pic soon, though, or she'd never forgive me.

Fortunately, Dorklock didn't want to wrestle me for the room I wanted—he wanted the room that overlooked the porch roof. When I pretended for a minute that I'd changed my mind and I wanted it, too, I thought he was going to turn me into a toad then and there. He really does look like a mini-grandmama sometimes.

Despite the danger, it's too much fun to tease him for me to give it up completely. But I usually don't keep it up for too long. Unless he's really ticked me off. "Relax, Tobias. I want the turret room. You can have the roof. . . ummm, I mean room."

He glared at me again, but then grinned when neither Mom or Dad said a word. They were too busy hoping we'd accept this change with happy smiles. Right. If my parents weren't clever enough to realize why he'd want a room with easy egress to the outside world, I wasn't going to tell them.

It didn't take long to get my furniture the way I liked it. I tried the bed over in the curve of the turret, and then against the wall opposite. Mom had offered to buy me new stuff, to commemorate the new room (she could have popped me new stuff, but Dad would have had a cow-bad for the economy, he says). I said no, thank you (don't be so surprised—not saying thank you in my house tends to bring down nuclear winter from the 'rents).

Normally, I like buying new things as much as the next girl. But throwing away everything I'd collected in my Beverly Hills life just seemed cold. Not to mention final, somehow. What if thing didn't work out in Salem and we went home in a few months? No. I didn't want a new school or house, but I couldn't do anything about those. I could, however, refuse new things in my room. So my yellow comforter glowed in the sunshine from the curtain less windows. It would have looked pretty if all the light didn't show the stains from when I'd had a sleepover and we'd spilled an entire bottle of red nail polish on it.

Mom would have just zapped the horror-novel-red streaks away. Except that all thirteen girls at my slumber party had seen the stains. Since I didn't want to lie, and Mom didn't want to have to wipe anyone's memories, the stains stayed.

"You can zap them away now. There's no one to see." Mom came in as I prepared to shove my bed back to the turret, where the stains would be mostly hidden.

"You mean I have no friends left, so what difference does it make?"

"Things change, prudence." Mom's voice had that annoying hushed sound she got when she knew I had a reason to be upset. "Even mortals accept that, and they don't live nearly as long as we do."

"I don't mind change—when it's a good change."

"This is a good change. You'll see." She stood up, her voice getting brisker to signal that she was done humoring me. Of course. She didn't leave behind her life in Beverly Hills. She was a witch and could pop in to see her friends anytime she wanted.

She pointed to the big heavy pieces of furniture I'd been scooting all over the floor by the sweat of my brow. "For example, one good change is that you can zap them now, you know."

Duh. I'd been using muscle power without a second thought. But I didn't want her to know. "I like feeling the weight as I move stuff," I lied, as I deep-breathed the bed across the broad pine planks once more. "It helps me think." True—of how much I hate this place. But I was wise enough not to say that aloud.

"Suit yourself," She said, turning away. But then she turned back. "Prudence—"

"Yes?" Omigod, here it comes—the whole "give the place a chance, part deux" speech. Part one was bad enough.

"I'd like you to practice your magic before school starts."

I hadn't seen that one coming. Or the scalding rage that welled up at one more uberunfair life event. "Great. For sixteen years it's prudence, don't zap that,' and now you want me to do magic?"

"I always meant to teach you. It just never seemed the right time. But now it is."

I sighed heavily and zapped the bed into the turret. Maybe my anger made me overshoot, but the bed hit the wall and bounced off. Mom waved her hand and fixed the damage to the wall. Great. I'm not even any good at magic now that I'm finally allowed to do it.

"What's next? Are you going to tell me it's time I learned how to sleep with boys and experiment with drugs?" It was a low blow, but I was so furious. All I could think of was how "witchcraft is not to be used in the mortal realm" lectures were right up there with the abstinence and sobriety lectures parents are so good at lobbing at you the minute you leave the house for a simple trip to the mall or a harmless school dance. At least in my house, they were. Until now.

All the sympathy left her face. Good. "Don't think those protective spells I've put on you will be any different now that we're here—they're not. In fact"—she closed her eyes and lifted her hands in a careless circle—"I've just triple-strengthened them, young lady."

You'd think I'd learn to keep my mouth shut when I'm mad. But, no, I have to make things worse.

Mom wasn't finished. "And now I'm going to find my spell book so I can put a "gratitude" chime on you to remind you that you have it pretty good for a sixteen-year-old." She marched out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

For a minute I stood there boiling, wanting to follow her down the stairs. My mom slammed my door. She hadn't done that in . . . ever. And she said this move would be good for us, that it would make us closer as a family. Right.

I went over and opened the door she had just slammed shut. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to be a sixteen-year-old witch who was never allowed to use magic and now has to!" I yelled after her. And then I slammed the door shut again. Hard. Without magic.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

Going from Cinderella at the ball to Rapunzel in the tower was no fun. But what choice did I have? I couldn't put my plan to be crowned cool in motion until school started. Needless to say, I didn't practice my witchcraft like my mother told me to—just because she told me to and expected me to be happy about it. Of course, like all unfair things, my stubbornness came back to bite me two days into my new life as the Rapunzel of Salem.

For some reason, my new school (Agatha's Day School for witches, of all the silly names) wasn't impressed with my 4.0 GPA, my cheerleading, or my active after-school schedule. They, it seemed, wanted to test me.

"Why do I need to be tested? Didn't they get my transcripts? How different is this school from Beverly Hills High?"

"All new students have to be tested. It's a very exclusive private school, Prudence. I had to pull strings to get you admitted." Mom seemed to think I should thank her for that. "Besides, last I looked at the course catalog, Beverly Hills High had absolutely no magic on the curriculum."

Mom was very calm, probably being "sympathetic" to my moving pains again. Which only made me want to scream. Her parents should have named her Pain in the ass instead of Patience. Which she probably knew, since she deliberately waited to tell me about the scheduled testing until it was time to go. No time to find the equivalent of a magic SAT prep course.

"Well, that's great. You and Dad have convinced me I shouldn't use my magic and now I have to learn how to do it in school? There goes my straight-A, honor-roll status."

Mom actually looked conflicted. But then she shrugged. I hate it when she shrugs. It never means anything good.

'We'll see how you do in the testing before we start tuning up the harps, shall we?"

The look on her face dialed my worry meter up to over-load. It said, maybe I wasn't going to do so well on this test. Me. The girl who had aced every test since preschool. You'd think it would have occurred to me that a magic school would have magic on the curriculum. Duh.

I repeated faintly, "We'll see how—"

"Prudence. I don't know if she meant it as my name, or as a caution for my behavior, because as she spoke, Mom touched my shoulder and we were no longer in the kitchen. I blinked and swallowed to clear my ears, which felt like I'd just hit high altitude onboard a jet plane. Somehow we'd landed in a small, white-walled room that smelled like frosted-over fireplace ashes. There was a white desk that could have been carved from a glacier. It had a faint mist rising from it. Behind the desk there was a very old, fragile-looking, white-haired woman wearing a white robe with about a million folds in it—a bit like what you'd picture an angel might wear if it came to earth to visit.

The lady in the white robe didn't look like an angel, though. She was so wrinkled, it was hard to tell, but I don't think she'd ever been beautiful, even back in the stone ages, when she was young. And even the most ethically challenged nip-and-tucker in Hollywood would have run screaming from her sagging skin.

"Right on time. Good." The woman unrolled a parchment scroll and dipped a white-feather-tipped pen in a well of white ink with a hand that was as wrinkled as her face.

"Name?"

Mom nudged me. "Prudence Stewart." The place didn't look like any testing center I'd ever seen. Where were the desks? The test booklets? The clocks that ticked away the time as slowly as the seconds just before the school bell rang? There was only the old lady, who, for all I knew, was Methuselah's mother—and she didn't look like she'd been happy since Methuselah was born. "Age?"

"Sixteen."

She frowned at me, but her words were meant for Mom. "You waited until she sixteen, did you? This can't be good. And she's a mixed blood. I can't approve what you've done. I don't wonder that it has led to problems."

Great. She was not only unhappy, she mega-prejudiced. Mom had warned me, but I hadn't believed her. In this day and age I thought that people who still hung on to outdated prejudices would at least keep them to themselves.

But, no, apparently witch world wasn't as advanced as Beverly Hills, where your blood didn't matter as long as your wallet was well-stocked with credit cards. Although Mom says that's a prejudice of another color—mainly green, I guess.

"My daughter has a lot of raw talent. But she hasn't been schooled—"

"Neglected her, don't try to sugarcoat it. Do you think I was born yesterday?" She cackled at that, which made her sound as if she hadn't been born but had hatched out of molten earth at the beginning of time. "Lucky you didn't have worse happen than the boy playing a few harmless pranks."

"I—"

"Adolescence is a dangerous time for witches. I shouldn't have to tell you that." This time she did look at Mom with a glance that suggested my normally uberperfect mother had gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "All the trouble you got up to in your youth."

It felt a little weird to see Mom treated like she was about six years old. Not to mention hearing the witch stuff discussed out loud. Most of the time we talked about it in whispers, if we talked about it at all—and never outside the family.

I didn't always think my mom was right, but still, I didn't like anyone else saying so. The old lady thought my mom neglected me because she didn't teach me a few spells? What's the big deal, anyway? So I'm a witch. I have powers. I'm still just a regular person. I'm not just mortal.

Methuselah's mom turned to her frown back on me and searched my face like she was looking for zits that were about to pop out—or had heard what I was thinking, which I had a feeling would be a truly terrible thing. She leaned forward. "What's your Talent?" Her words were as sharp as icicles.

You know the expression "tongue-tied"? Well, I was. The old lady's glare said, "Answer wrong and you'll be sorry." And I didn't have a clue what she was even asking, never mind what the right answer was.

"She hasn't manifested one." Mom Interrupted nervously, drawing the crank's attention once again.

I wanted to sigh with relief. Until I realized that she knew what the old lady was talking about. And she hadn't mentioned it to me. The anger that started boiling up in me evaporated with one thought: Was I . . . no. She would have said. I would have known.

Wouldn't I?

"Hasn't . . . ? At sixteen?" The mist rising from the desk got thicker, almost as if the desk were melting under the heat of the old lady's displeasure.

"I can zap things from here to there. Make some things appear. What other powers are there?" Did she want to know if I could disappear? And should I tell her I could—when I was really, really, scared? Like when I was six and a pit bull jumped over the fence and ran after me? Somehow I didn't think that would impress her.

Methuselah's mom frowned—at Mom, not me. "Please, Patience, Don't waste my time. Put her in mortal school." She waved her hand, and in the blink of an eye and a pop of my eardrums, we were home. The New England sage and taupe Mom had decorated our new living room in seemed almost dark after the white glare of the testing room.

My Knees were shaking a little, but I tried to block out the thought that there was something wrong with me by thinking of the positives of failing my test before I'd even started it. "So I have to go to mortal school?"

Mortal school would mean I could still use my powers Covertly to "help" Maintain my Reputation, just as I had done at home. I'd still have to make friends and find a way to get on the squad. But since I was allowed to use my powers here—

Mom chewed on her bottom lip like it was a sour starburst. "Of course Not! You're going to Agatha's Day School for Witches, East Branch. I just forgot How touchy Agatha can be." She smiled at me with all confidence in the world—misplaced, in my opinion. "Let's try for lucky number two."

And before I could object, we were back in front of Methuselah's mom, also known as Agatha. No doubt the same Agatha whose name was on the school. Lucky me.

Me: Whatever U do Don't let ur dad break the custody agreement if ur mom ever wants to move u 2 another school! Testing makes u feel like ur 5 again.

MADDIE: But U R so smart!

ME: Not here

MADDIE: No way!

ME: Way!

MADDIE: XXOOOXOXOXOXXOO. . . gtg Coach is giving me the stink eye.

I felt a pang of disappointment as I snapped my cell phone shut. I'd hope for some real lament time with Maddie. But the only thing shorter then her were Cheezie's skirts.

The time difference really blew. It was after dinner for me, and I was back in my turret tower doing the Rapunzel pining. Not that Maddie was a prince, but she was my best friend. My best friend whose day ran three hours earlier than mine, putting her smack in the middle of post-school cheerleading practice and unavailable to lament with me. She had promised to set her alarm early enough to wake up and wish me luck on my first day school, at least. If I had a first day of school.

Even worse than the time-delay friendship was the distraction that had pulled her away from listening to me whine: cheerleading. No such distraction for me.

I had dared to ask Agatha if the school had a cheerleading (it does, thank the stars, or I don't know how I'd lock in my cool). But, as a new student, I'd still have to wait for regular tryouts after the school year had begun. I hadn't had to do that since I made the middle school team in sixth grade. So it made for a little change in my plans to take Agatha's by storm, natch. Luckily, I can think on my feet.

I suppose it was best that Maddie hadn't been able to text too long. I might have slipped and complained about being a stranger in witch land. Then Mom would have had to go wipe Maddie's memory again, which would not have made Mom happy. Not that I'm very happy with her, either, after our frostfully delightful session with Methuselah's mom. I would rather have had an anesthesia-free booty lift by the Butcher of Beverly Hills than have had to suffer through the frostbite that came from letting myself be "tested" by Agatha.

Mom had seemed perfectly calm, though, when we popped back in to face the old woman. In the same voice she used to stop Dad from blowing a gasket when witchcraft got out of hand in our house, she said to Agatha, "Test her before you make any decisions, please. After all, we did make the appointment."

Agatha might have said no. I was certainly hoping she would.

But Mom was firm and convincing, unfortunately, when she added, "She has had powers since she was just a baby, Agatha, but I've discouraged her from using them, so no doubt she's a little behind."

"A little?" Agatha apparently had lived long enough that she'd worn out any sense of obligation to be polite. "She has a mortal father. She may not even be a true witch."

"She is a true witch, Just a bit . . . Untrained. I'm sure she'll manifest her Talent soon, with the right education. An education I'm certain that only your day school can provide. I have done my research, you know. I found Agatha's East far superior to Delilah's South. I would hate to have to send Prudence there."

Mom sounded unnaturally obsequious. I wouldn't have been surprised to see her bow and scrape, like the people in medieval times had to do. Not that Mom was that old, but Grandmama was, and she sometimes liked to remember the traditions of "the good old days."

"Is that so?" Agatha's narrow eyes got even narrower as she focused them on me. "Catch."

She didn't even twitch a finger and a baseball zoomed toward me, right at my nose. I reached up and caught it. Other girls paid thousands to have a nose like the one I was born with. I wasn't going to risk letting this bitter old hag break it.

"With her hands?" She sounded outraged. And when a bit of spit flew out of her mouth and landed on her desk, a plume of steam flared up with a hiss.

Mom, meek as any good Puritan lass, said, "It wasn't practical to teach her magic in the mortal world."

"Practical. You? A witch who married a mortal and brought up not one but two children without proper education? Sounds like you haven't grown any more sensible than you were at her age." Agatha scorn was even more impressive than my old principal's when he talked to the kids who graffitied "Beverly Hills Tight Ass" on his office door. I have to admit I was glad I wasn't her target.

Mom opened her mouth to protest, although I didn't know what her defense to what was, after all, the bald and the ugly truth, was going to be. Because just then Agatha waved a regal, if skeletally thin, hand. "Leave us."

Mom disappeared before she could even let out a squeak.

"Parents. They always insist their child needs extra help. Do you need help, girl?

That was easy. "No." it didn't matter if it was true, I knew instinctively it was the only acceptable answer. I counted silently to ten, hoping Mom would pop back in and rescue me from this crazy woman. At twelve, it became clear she wasn't going to.

"Good. Maybe you do have more sense than your mother did in her youth."

I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that this lady had known my mom when she was my age. But before I could, she demanded, "Pull a rabbit from your hat."

"What hat?"

The old bat just made a mark on her scroll and said, "Can you materialize anything?"

I tried to visualize a hat. I tried hard, because one thing I've learned is that if you aren't completely clued in to the subject, sometimes attitude and a confident air can get you extra points. And, clearly, I needed all the extra points I could get. After about ten seconds, a Red Sox baseball cap appeared and hovered in the air in front of me.

"Are you a Sox fan?" She actually sounded friendly for a moment.

"My dad is. He's from Boston originally."

"Mortal fools." Okay. Not so friendly. "Pull a rabbit out of the hat, then, child."

I reached into the hat and tried not to look surprised when I felt something squirming under my fingertips. I pulled out a rabbit. Or what was meant to be a rabbit. It turned out to be a hamster. Not my fault, I swear. I had more experience with my brother's hamsters. The last rabbit I'd seen was the one who went to bed in Goodnight Moon.

Agatha didn't seem happy with my explanation, even though I'd smiled my best head-cheerleader smile—the one I'd been practicing all summer and was never going to get to use. Another mark on the scroll, and I was already get tired of the testing. It's never a good sign when you get tired of testing at the beginning.

She looked at me with cold blue eyes. "Do you need extra help?"

"No. I'm fine." I would have said no if she'd sent two hungry lions at me. She had that effect on everyone, I suspected.

"Good." And we were off again.

All I can say is that the test is exhausting. When things weren't flying at my face, orders were flying out of Agatha's mouth. She wasn't just the meanest witch I'd ever met, she was also the headmistress of a school that wanted students who could fly, materialize huge objects with the lift of a finger, and play and orchestra of instruments with just a few lifts of the eyebrows and a twitch of the nose. I, needless to say, was definitely not one of those students. Although I'm proud to say that smile did not slip once, not even when the violin bow squeaked across the strings and tangled in my hair.

Somewhere during the hell that was my entrance exam to Agatha's Day School for Witches, she let slip she had been born during the days of Genghis Khan. And she was the one in charge of running a school for young witches. Not a surprise at all—if you were looking to turn out heart-less dictators and megalomaniacs.

Somewhere in between not flying and drawing ungodly sounds from a clarinet and a flute without touching them, I realized witch school was going to be even less fun that I'd thought it would be. Agatha assured me, with a sadistic smile, that the only way to remain on the cheerleading squad—if I made it—Would be to maintain passing grades in all my classes.

For the first time since I'd joined my preschool class with a lunch box and a drive to be potty trained, I would have tried to fail a test—if I knew what I was being tested on. As it was, I just hoped I'd last long enough to see the end of Agatha and frozen wasteland of a testing room.


End file.
